


la paraître de marbre

by caitlinnlouwho



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Eating Disorders, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitlinnlouwho/pseuds/caitlinnlouwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only takes five weeks, two sleepless nights, seven cups of coffee, and one small macaron to awaken the beast again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la paraître de marbre

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short drabble I wrote in about 20 minutes. I can say that some of this does come from personal experience, though not all of it. Please DO NOT read if you are triggered by eating disorders, body dysmorphia, self-harm, etc. I would feel awful if someone read this and were triggered.

It only takes five weeks, two sleepless nights, seven cups of coffee, and one small macaron to awaken the beast again.

He should not find such a savage pleasure in denying his fragile bones nourishment, but he does, instead plying their wishes with more caffeine and more adrenaline.

He looks in the mirror during his study breaks, and wants to cry. His hipbones don’t cut sharply enough; his collarbone is only as lethal as a butter knife when it should be able to shatter diamond. His eyes are ringed with black and his once-golden hair curls limply against his cheek.

He dashes his scale into the mirror in frustration, and makes another cup of coffee.

It’s too cold in Paris; he shivers even as he’s bundled in layer upon layer of fabric. Not even the warmth of his lover can revive his chilled soul, even though Grantaire’s small warmth miraculously comes from his heart and not his bottle.

Another week goes by, and he chokes down a piece of bread during their meeting. Leaders should know how to practice appeasement. He barely feels the hunger as he spits it back up later; his stomach has curled in on itself, no doubt, and he wonders if this is how the people they’re trying to save feel. Empty and miserable, always trying to gain something they will never be able to have.

The disease wraps around him, curls into his mind like a warm cat, and he finds himself falling madly in love with his deadly counterpart, falling further and further. 

It makes sense (or should, says the disease preying on his pliant thoughts), that the leader of the new republic should look inhuman. Godlike. Untouchable.

He is not yet marble, he says as he pinches the fatless skin between his hips. He’s too soft to be stone.

It’s getting even colder, he thinks, as his nails turn purple (disgusting color of royalty, he’s always hated it) and his lips blue and his eyes dark, and he sits on a bench with a book of hopes and dreams that are slowly withering away with his body.

But everything is fine, he insists, just tired, and his chilled, blue lips curl around his teeth when he sees how fat and soft he’s become (the others worry, they say he’s getting too thin but he knows they’re lying).

He falls again, only this time it’s real: screaming for justice on top of a scaffold one moment and unconscious on the ground the next. He wakes hours later, embarrassment and leftover blood staining his face crimson as an IV pumps fattening poison into his veins.

He’s surprised all the fat didn’t cushion his fall, while his friends think it a miracle he survived.

They barely decide against carting him away, but he smiles and eats the food they give him like a good boy and they let him go.

He sits alone in his apartment, looking at his bones and veins through the translucent skin on his arms, and he waits.

The disease beckons him home. He tries to fight, tries to prove how much of a revolutionary he is, but his body gives up after one hour and a bottle of vodka stolen from Grantaire.

He lies on the floor, eyes glassy and unfocused, and waits to be rescued.

After all, someone has to immortalize him.


End file.
